


To the End

by LiaIsInLove



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Delusions, Gen, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Illness, Mental Institutions, Niall-centric, Psych Ward, Psychosis, Schizophrenia, Self-Harm, Self-Harming Niall, Self-Mutilation, Suicidal Niall, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, psychiatric hospital
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 19:55:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2594471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiaIsInLove/pseuds/LiaIsInLove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Then indeed insanity had descended.</p><p> </p><p>Or the one where Niall descends into psychosis.</p><p>Or the one where this was originally an English class assignment (an Imitation of Virginia Woolf's "To the Lighthouse") that I decided to turn into a one-shot because I can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the End

**Author's Note:**

> So this was originally a class assignment for my AP Language class from like, two years ago. I found it on my desktop, reread it, was like, this isn't horrible, and then randomly decided to give it a go and post it here. The assignment was to imitate a specific passage from "To the Lighthouse" by Virginia Woolf and this was the result.  
> If any of you have read Virginia Woolf (and more importantly understood wtf she was talking about) before, then you are very smart. I'm just kidding. But you'll know that she's certainly an interesting character and her writing is wonderful and genius but you need to reread it probably twenty some odd times to actually comprehend it.  
> THIS IS AN IMITATION OF HER (I DO NOT ACTUALLY WRITE LIKE THIS) SO BE WARNED, IT IS INTENTIONALLY CONFUSING AS FUCK, so this is not for the faint of heart and feeble of patience (I don't think that actually makes sense but it's late and I'm a lazy bum so I'm gonna go with it).  
> I'll post the original passage for any of you who are interested in the end note. I highly recommend reading it if you have time and patience.  
> Lastly, I don't know if this might be triggering to anyone (I've read and reread it and I personally don't think it is), but if you think you might be triggered, then I am begging you PLEASE DON'T READ THIS IF IT COULD POSSIBLY DO YOU ANY HARM.

Then indeed insanity had descended.  Whispers of hatred circled from the ether to the earth. Never to release its grip any more, to force it rather more firmly into its hold, and whenever the captive tried valiantly, tried desperately, to escape — what else could be done — as Niall Horan fought his demons in the riot within his delirious chaotic mind and surrendered his sanity. Through the howling wind the voices of the evil of the disease came shrieking, too loudly to neglect exactly what they shrieked — but what mattered if the voices were quiet? lulling the tumult (his head was teeming again; Four-Hundred the Cat was hissing inside, also Wednesday the Rat), if they would not reach through to the world itself at least to show their faces and peer out. They would emerge then Havoc spiraling outwards in pandemonium; His mark everywhere; His touch irresistible; and how in His clutches a child might drown. And if they still survived (Niall was broken down with despair and surrendered almost at once; but Wednesday the Rat ordered his death by razor), if they still screamed yes, that it was necessary, this psychosis of His, and the demand had more power than he, and they preferred controlling; savagely then without delay or doubt, the voices would destroy their creator. Savagely the hallucinations would screech (Niall obeyed them in his defeat); violently the cacophony grew (it seemed to emanate through his every pore). And it all shattered, Wednesday the Rat laughed, achieving her purpose, watching the downfall, much as it had always been.

Indeed, the voices might rejoice, as the wails of sirens threw themselves against the air, against Four-Hundred the Cat, Wednesday the Rat, and Niall Horan so that they fought with many hands of paramedics on their body, why not welcome this, be saved by this, surrender and live? The cries of all the doctors sweeping in waves over the stretcher enraged them; the anesthetics vexed them; nothing subdued their rage, until, the tranquilizers injecting and the drugs clawing their potent fingers in to their heart, a suture stitching, a psychiatric team somewhere waiting, the medication repelled the delusions, subdued the evil in their head, and Niall Horan stirring in his hospital bed. He lamented at his survival as a mother laments at the neatness in the room of a dead child. His thoughts raced around. Here he was again, he knew, lying strapped down in the psychiatric ward. Alive.

**Author's Note:**

> Original Passage:  
> "Then indeed peace had come. Messages of peace breathed from the sea to the shore. Never to break its sleep any more, to lull it rather more deeply to rest, and whatever the dreamers dreamt holily, dreamt wisely, to confirm — what else was it murmuring — as Lily Briscoe laid her head on the pillow in the clean still room and heard the sea. Through the open window the voice of the beauty of the world came murmuring, too softly to hear exactly what it said — but what mattered if the meaning were plain? entreating the sleepers (the house was full again; Mrs. Beckwith was staying there, also Mr. Carmichael), if they would not actually come down to the beach itself at least to lift the blind and look out. They would see then night flowing down in purple; his head crowned; his sceptre jewelled; and how in his eyes a child might look. And if they still faltered (Lily was tired out with travelling and slept almost at once; but Mr. Carmichael read a book by candlelight), if they still said no, that it was vapour, this splendour of his, and the dew had more power than he, and they preferred sleeping; gently then without complaint, or argument, the voice would sing its song. Gently the waves would break (Lily heard them in her sleep); tenderly the light fell (it seemed to come through her eyelids). And it all looked, Mr. Carmichael thought, shutting his book, falling asleep, much as it used to look.  
> Indeed the voice might resume, as the curtains of dark wrapped themselves over the house, over Mrs. Beckwith, Mr. Carmichael, and Lily Briscoe so that they lay with several folds of blackness on their eyes, why not accept this, be content with this, acquiesce and resign? The sigh of all the seas breaking in measure round the isles soothed them; the night wrapped them; nothing broke their sleep, until, the birds beginning and the dawn weaving their thin voices in to its whiteness, a cart grinding, a dog somewhere barking, the sun lifted the curtains, broke the veil on their eyes, and Lily Briscoe stirring in her sleep. She clutched at her blankets as a faller clutches at the turf on the edge of a cliff. Her eyes opened wide. Here she was again, she thought, sitting bold upright in bed. Awake." --To the Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf
> 
>    
> Okay, so yeah. That's it. Have a lovely day. Be forgiving and kind to yourself. Show compassion and empathy to one another. Love freely and without qualms. And remember that you are loved.  
> Lots of love,  
> -Lia


End file.
